


Stan Floats

by pumpkinpeyes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad headspace, Cutting, Depression, F/M, Happy Ending, It actually gets better p quick, M/M, Multi, No Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The Losers all deserve happiness and love!!! Positive relationships!!!! Communication!!!!, Trigger warnings:, don't worry more chapters to come, graphic depictions of suicide, im sorry y'all i know im hurting our boy, is that a tag?, made myself sad, poor boy thinks that he's the odd person out, stan thinks that he's doomed to be forgotten again, this is operating under the guise that none of them ever married and all they have is each other, ~I'm just a sucker for pain~
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22708912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpeyes/pseuds/pumpkinpeyes
Summary: Stan managed to gather himself together in time to help his friends, these beautiful people he loves, kill the thing that took them all away in the first place. But he figures that's where his usefulness ends. They'll all forget him when it is over. At least this way he doesn't have to watch them leave him behind again.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stan Uris/Other(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLease for the love of whatever you believe in UNDERSTAND that the first chapter is a graphic downward spiral that leads to Stan's suicide attempt. Please do not proceed if you can't handle the graphic nature.

Stan wonders, late that night after their adult-triumph over It, why he still wants to die. 

The urge to slice through his skin and layers of adipose tissue in his tub of steaming bathwater when Mike called him was overwhelming. The memories rushing back, the vivid reminder of the first time they all had gone down to where It lived to save Bev. The feeling of Those Teeth sinking into his face while he lay prone on the cold and wet stone and his brain parading the sick taunt ‘ _ your friends left you here they let this happen they don’t need you they don’t want you you’re alone and you will always be alone _ ’ threatening to swallow him whole and turn him into the sad but acceptable casualty to save the friend they all actually cared him about. His thoughts never really corrected after that.

Derry took the meaning out of his childhood and replaced it by far-away and faded memory of hazy summers and the cold, resonant echo of the pulpit. The vague recollection of bike rides and jumping into a flooded quarry like an idiot. Before That Call he doesn’t remember ever bothering to put thought into why he couldn’t remember his life before starting college. The insecurity, the pain, the inner turmoil, and the desperation stayed. Like an actual ghost. No reason, no amount of therapy could have unraveled him before The Call because how do you fix trauma you can’t remember?

They’re all sleeping together cramped in the same room, surely breaking a fire-safety rule. Probably. And the Losers were all asleep except him. Tired, so tired, exhausted and overwhelmed with new and fresh memory of what had been when they were kids like it all had just been yesterday. He felt proud, in a way. He’d managed to overthink his newest suicide attempt to the point of reckless stupidity because  _ hey _ if he was willing to die then instead of dying against It, then why not just let his last hurrah be heroic. Maybe he’d be remembered fondly that way. Hero sounded better than coward did.

He can feel the blazing heat of Richie’s arm against his left and the lightweight breath of Eddie against his shoulder. He can hear Ben murmur in his sleep and Mike snoring louder than anyone, like always. It felt like home in such a stupid way and Stan couldn’t help but curse this whole fucking town and It and the Losers and himself because this all, all of it, was the perfect storm for his dumb brain to attach himself to everyone else like they weren’t all going to wake up in four hours and book flights and disappear from his life again. 

Left behind. Alone. To become another memory to forget. 

That’s the crux, isn’t it? Stan is in love with every one of them and they had all paired off. Bev and Ben were a for-sure thing. A Space Clown couldn’t keep them apart now. Bill had found his secret muse, his light - his inspiration - in Mike. Every strong character in every book was Mike. Stan could see it now. Now that he Knew Bill again as a friend and an author. Between Ben’s poetry and Bill’s prose, between Richie’s jokes and Eddie’s knack for risk analysis, between Mike’s strength and Bev’s fire, well, Stan didn’t know what he brought to the table. 

He was forgotten once. It’s bound to happen again. All the others still marked one-another’s lives in secret ways but him. Ben never settled, his love for Bev too strong and too fated. Richie had pined after something for years only to remember that it was Eddie he was missing. Mike let Bill live on without him for so long to keep him safe and give him a life just in case It never came back. The true hero. The man who stayed behind to make sure that the monster stayed dead. God. What is Stan? Was he anything to these people?

So, in the dark and quiet, among the snores and soft breaths, wading through warm sheets and cold toes, Stan slinks into the bathroom with his bag.

He turns on the tub with a wince, hoping he doesn’t wake anyone, and tries to navigate his surroundings quietly. Everything sounds too loud, too harsh, too bright. The lights over the mirror and sink are giving off a whine and he can hear the pipes in the wall groan and clank. The bath is humming out hot water only because he can still feel the cold of that stone and the hollowness of loneliness sinking back into his bones to settle. The universe had messed up in letting him leave the Barrens behind alive. He’s just solving the over-correction. Everyone knows that you’re never supposed to swerve, you just brace and hit.

So he strips down to his underwear because  _ someone  _ is going to find him and he can’t handle the idea of being naked when they do. There’s this nagging guilt bubbling up in the back of his head that mocks him, yammering on about how he’s just going to be another mess for the rest to clean up. That this is selfish. And boy does he agree but he just thinks bitterly that at least this way when he’s forgotten he’ll be too dead to notice. You gotta have something for yourself, he thinks. Everyone deserves to have something that’s theirs. 

He hadn’t packed his good straight razor because a nice, clean shave hadn’t really been up there on his list of important things to do before killing a clown. So he spends several minutes over the steaming tub of clear, scalding water fumbling with a razor to pry the thing apart and get at the blades. His brain whites out the tiny pinpricks of pain he feels on the tips of his fingers as his hands shake just a little too hard. He’s nicking himself but can’t find it in himself to care. They’re love bites compared to the end-result. 

Stan tries not to feel giddy. His heart is thudding in his chest and he gives a little ‘aha’ when the stupid thing finally comes apart. The elation is swallowed up quickly and he remembers to lock the door when he hears the sound of faint mumbling on the other side of the thin bathroom wall. He feels like he’s on a time crunch here. If he doesn’t act fast someone will get up to pee and he can’t have anyone getting to him in time. Best-case scenario for him, the goal, is for both him and the water to be cold before someone forces the door open. 

He feels like he’s a kid again. All knobby knees and gangling arms. He lowers himself into the bath slow enough to avoid the loud slosh of water but fast enough to shock his system at the temperature. His brow breaks out into a sweat and he feels sick to his stomach pretty immediately. Stan’s hands haven’t stopped shaking and he fumbles the blades more than once. This is going to be a hack-job, he knows it, because the blades are thin. But he’s hoping that the between the boiling water and the blooming emptiness inside his chest that the gouging will pass him by in rhythmic, biting beauty.

Bathroom tile bounces back the shakiness of his breath and the slosh of water over the edge of the tub to rain on the towel below. Gleaming razor edges glint in the harsh, white light and he grips the extras in his hand, letting them bite into his palm, while he psyches himself up.

He bites the bullet and begins his violent assault on his left arm first. There is a high-pitched ringing in his ears and he can feel the pain as it happens but it almost immediately gets smothered by endorphins and a sort of manic haze. Stan thinks he hears something but he isn’t stopping. There’s no going back. The lines on his arm are as straight as he can keep them and he is trying so hard to stay on-track. Water is slapping against his chest, fueled by the frantic power in his right hand and there’s blood, thick and so stark against his pale skin and the porcelain of the tub. Steaming water slowly drinking up the drops of blood that turn to rivulets. 

God, he feels high almost. Disassociated, watching in fascination as this arm in front of him gets torn to absolute ribbons and he realizes with a sort of faint ‘oh’ that he’s been grunting with effort and letting out little cries of pain that are slowly building into hysterical laughter and he bites his lip so hard in an effort to be quiet that he feels his tooth slice through his bottom lip. 

A series of panicked knocks, loud and echoing in the small bathroom, make him flinch and drop the ruined blade. Stan cracks open his tight fist and plucks another from his hand and holds it, shaking and numb, in his left hand to start in on his right arm because he is running out of time. 

“Stan!” 

It’s Mike’s voice and it sounds panicked and briefly Stan feels bad. He can hear Mike call out for him again, jiggling he doorknob aggressive and pounding the door with his shoulder. Stan finds he can’t form any words for him so he just starts in, again, with feeling. He’s laughing, sobbing, hiccuping and he’s losing clarity of sight and decides he can finish this with his eyes closed. 

“Break down the fucking door, Mike!” He hears faintly, like it is coming from far away, and he knows that voice. That’s Richie, he thinks happily, dazed. His arms have become dead weight and suddenly he’s the sleepiest he’s ever been. The laughter is dying on his lips. His breath sighs out over chattering teeth and shuddering inhales wrack his throat. He can hear banging on the bathroom wall. 

Bev’s voice carries through the thin plaster, desperate and hitching with sobs, “Stan, Stan! Say something! Open the fucking door! Ben, please! Someone get him, oh my god, oh my god.”

He wants to hold her and shush her with a hand in that lovely, flaming hair. 

“Eddie, I can’t lose him, I can’t, please, God.” Richie is crying and Stan tries to call out to him to say, ‘It’s ok. It’s almost over.’

The door splinters at the lock, catching against the doorjamb for a half-second before the whole thing is finally kicked in with the force of a battering ram. The sound is startling to Stan but his body isn’t flinching. He’s having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Mike gets to him first, hovering over the tub in shock, looking down at Stan and he can’t take it. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment, the disgust, that look people give you when they’re done dealing with all your pointless bullshit. Suddenly, the bathroom is full with the rest of the Losers, all clambering to the tub and Stan closes his eyes.

“No!” Bev screams and she’s the first to thrust herself into the tub, sloshing water over the edges and drenching her pajamas, “Oh, God, Stan, stay with me, please. Open your eyes! Christ, Mike, help me get him out!”

“I’m gonna get the sheets, Richie get me your knife!” Eddie yells, pulling him along. “Ben, call 911!”

Stan opens his eyes, just the barest amount, and whispers a broken, “No.”

Bev has him cradled in her lap now, hands coated in his blood while she tries in vain to staunch the bleeding. He can see her eyes, bright and wide-open. Frantic with big, fat tears streaming down her unblinking face. Mike is talking to him, patting him on the face with one big hand and shouting back over his shoulder, begging for Eddie to hurry. Bill is there, abruptly, stuck on a stutter and pale as milk. Stan’s eyes droop slowly while he watches Bill take off his flannel and tuck it around Stan’s chest. He mourns the fact that he can’t feel Bill’s warmth translated through the soft cotton.

Right before he passes out he thinks, hysterically, that he’s floating away.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan is still in the hospital and this is still the aftermath of his attempted suicide but this is the beginning of his healing process. Any potential triggers will be added to the beginning of every subsequent chapter.

Stan wakes up strapped to a hospital bed with the sting of antiseptic bothering his dry nose. Reality is slowly seeping into his brain now, hazy but clearing up with every blink of his eyes. He is so tired, bone-tired, and feels heavy. He tries to bring up a hand to his face to rub out his eyes and is stopped almost immediately by a soft cuff around his wrist and the jolt of the bed as his arm pulls taut. The noise jolts him into the moment fully and his breathing picks up; distantly, he can hear a heart monitor pick up somewhere behind him.

“No.” Stan whimpers, tears springing unbidden. “No.”

There’s a rustle next to him and he looks around the room, panicked, to see Beverly rousing beside him and he realizes that her hand is on the bed next to his thigh. Her delicate fingers twisted in the thin blanket and sheet. She wakes up slowly, eyes blinking and makeup smudged beneath her eyes, mascara trailing down her cheeks in the wake of old tears. The moment their eyes meet Stan freezes and she lets out a sob that breaks his heart. 

“Stan.” She whispers, almost to herself, “Oh, Stan.”

She’s crying now, again, and moves to stand. It would feel like she was towering over him if she didn’t look so small hunched in on herself with a hand fluttering up to her mouth. She’s trying to keep the cries contained and Stan tries to fold in on himself as well as he can but can’t break the eye-contact. He’s drinking in her face. Every detail, every wrinkle, the shine of her blue eyes and the limp, frazzled mess of her hair. It looks so muddled in this light and he wants so desperately to see her in the sun again. Bright and on fire. 

She sniffles and wipes her face with the back of her sleeve and reaches out to touch his face, and hesitates, “Can,” her voice trembles and her hands reach out to him again, ghosting over his body like she wants to make sure he’s all there, “can I?”

He knows what she wants. Bev has always been affectionate and tactile and he almost burns, he wants it so bad. So he nods once, still apprehensive, and Beverly surges forward. The restraints at his wrists jostle again with the instinct to wrap her up in a hug and he’s crying now, full-on waterworks, and hates that he’s done this to himself, to her. To them all.

“Stan.” Bev half-sobs, half-laughs, like she’s relieved. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Stan’s heart constricts and he tries in vain to wet his dry mouth, “Bev,” he tries, raspy.

“Shh, don’t talk. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. Just, God, Stan.” She leans back enough to smooth his hair out of his eyes and leaves her warm hand against his cheek. The feel of her thumb ghosting over his cheekbone with the love and care that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing is almost too much for him to bear. She speaks up again, voice soft, “I’m gonna call in the nurses. They’ll want to poke and prod you but maybe we can get some ice chips out of them, ok?”

“Don’t leave.” He tries, the words almost too low to hear. 

Bev gives him a heartbroken look, mouth twisting, and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, “Oh, honey,” she whispers into his hairline, “none of us are going to leave you ever again. And neither can you. You can’t leave us. You can’t leave me, Stan. Please, don’t try to leave us again.”

This is the part where the guilt slams into Stan full-force. It’s a weight on his chest, heavy with accusations and self-hate. He couldn’t get it right, he didn’t do it right, he can’t even  _ die _ the right way. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. He should be dead, he deserves to be, and the others should be moving on to forget him. He’s hurt Beverly, sweet, sweet, Bev who has never done anything wrong. She’s crying over him, shedding tears he doesn’t deserve and the nurse is moving around him, voice low and soft, talking both to him and to Bev. 

“I’m going to step out for just a second, ok, Stan? I just need to call the others so they can start making their way here, ok?” Bev’s voice is still shaking and she steps backwards out of the room like she doesn’t want to tear her eyes away from his and Stan tries not to panic at the thought of being alone again.

The nurse checks his bandages, notes the little pinpricks of blood seeping through and gives Stan a warm but scolding look, “We’ll have to wrap you up again. You need to be careful and try not to pull against the restraints.”

“Sorry.” Stan whispers, throat raw, “How long?”

The nurse’s eyes soften and she covers him back up, smoothing her hands across the blanket and tucking it in around his legs and feet, “Almost three days now. Minor surgery to repair veins, tendons, ligaments, and stitch you up. The doctor will be in soon to go over it for you. He’s already spoken to your wife. You have a long road of recovery ahead of you.”

“My wife?” Stan mumbles, almost to himself. 

The nurse gives him a smile and nods, “She’ll be right back. Hasn’t left your side since you got here. Poor thing. You gave her and all your friends quite a scare.”

Bev comes back in at that. She looks tense, still sad, but more focused. He can see it in the set of her shoulders and the jut of her chin. The nurse pats her on the shoulder twice with a promise to be back with some ice chips and a firm reminder that visiting hours will be over soon. 

“He can see your friends but only family can stay after visiting hours are over, ok?”

Bev nods and sits next to Stan again, grabbing his hand automatically and holding it like a life-line even though the angle is awkward for her. There’s relief there, having her back in the room, but it quickly fades back into the guilt again. He tries to ignore the pang of longing in his chest. 

“Wife?” He asks and tries not to sound accusatory. 

Bev just gives him a watery smile with a one-shoulder shrug, “I panicked. They weren’t going to let anyone back here with you and it just kind of slipped out. I couldn’t-” her voice cracks and she clears her throat, “I couldn’t deal with the thought of you waking up alone. I needed to see you wake up.”

“You don’t have to stay.” 

He doesn’t mean for it to hurt her but she jolts backward as if he’d fully slapped her. She immediately retracts her hand from his and folds both in her lap to twist and pull at her fingers. A nervous habit that has always left her hands dry and on the verge of cracking. He feels a shock of desperation hit him again and he closes his eyes tight, as tight as he can, and waits to hear the sound of her chair scrape across the linoleum. He waits to hear her leave. 

After a full minute of silence he cracks open his eyes and has to steel himself against the urge to flinch because now Beverly looks truly broken. She’s crying again, silent but with tears so big he wonders, fleetingly, how she has that much in her to begin with. She takes in a shuddering breath and hugs herself so tightly that Stan thinks she’s trying to hold herself together. 

“You think that little of us? Of me?” She hiccups. “You think that I’d just leave you like this? That I would ever willingly leave you? That any of us would? Is that what you want? You just want to forget us?”

Stan lets out a sound of frustration because  _ no _ that isn’t what he wants, he never wanted to forget them, none of them. His heart is breaking and being tied to this hospital bed is suddenly the worst thing in the world because this need to hug her and bury his nose in her hair and comfort her is overwhelming.

“No. I could never forget you, please, Bev, don’t cry.” He fights against the restraints in an attempt to reach out to her. He feels despair like he never thought he would because he could think anything he wanted about himself but the idea of Beverly thinking that Stan didn’t care was almost too much to bear. “I could never forget you. Never. I just...I just wanted to make things easier for you, for all of you. I knew we would all go our separate ways and I couldn’t, I can’t-” he takes in a shuddering breath, “I couldn’t stand the idea of you forgetting me again.”

Bev laughs, something sad that’s only belied by her watery smile, “You think any of us could forget you now? Now that It is gone and dead and we all made it out? Now that there isn’t some cosmic fucking clown to keep us apart? Do you think, even for a moment, that any of us would let you go? Let anyone go? You’ve missed a lot while you’ve been out but I’ll let the boys fill you in on their plans.” She leans forward again cards her fingers through his hair. Her hands, warm - always warm- feel like they’re breathing life into him and he shamelessly leans into it. “We love you, Stan. I love you. And I won’t be letting go of you unless that’s what you  _ want. _ ”

“They’re coming?” Stan asks, throat tight with emotion. 

Bev smiles at him, “They’re all coming.” Then, a sort of pained look crosses her face, “Mike is really torn up. He said he knew something was wrong. That he could see it in your face even when you first came. He feels like this is his fault. We all took this hard but Mike is the worst.”

“It’s not his fault.” Stan practically pleads with her. “He can’t think this is his fault. This is me, this was all me. It’s my fault.”

“No.” Bev snaps, face hard even though her hand is still feather-light in his hair. “This isn’t anyone’s fault. And definitely not yours. There’s something going on with you, Stan. I’m not a doctor and I have my own problems, God knows, but you did what your brain thought you needed to. And I’m not totally convinced that this wasn’t the last remnants of It. But, no matter what this is, we will all be here for you. We’re going to help you through this. Soon you’ll be wishing we’d all just give you some space.”

“I think the fuck not.” Stan laughs, feeling traitorously lighter. 

The nurse comes in again, followed by the doctor. He’s an older gentleman, greying hair and face wrinkled with time and deep laugh-lines. He speaks softly but firm and makes sure to address both Stan and Bev. The reality settles in. Stan will need physical therapy for his hands to regain better motor control. The doctor does tell him, sadly, that his left arm was worse-off than his right and that he’s very likely to never experience complete control with his left hand again. It makes Stan feel worse, like he’s some sort of invalid, and the idea of being a burden isn’t something he’s sure he’ll ever overcome. 

Like she can read his mind, Bev gives him a Look and accepts the ice chips from the nurse with a ‘thank you’ and then she levels Stan with a fierce, affectionate glare.

“Don’t for one minute let that cute little head of yours tell you that you’re less.” She says, clipped, while she feeds him small spoonfuls of crushed ice. “Do you think I’m a burden for having bad knees? Or Mike for his carpal tunnel? Maybe Eddie for his hypochondria? Bill for his stutter?”

“That’s different.”

Bev shakes her head, “It really isn’t. If this is you, if this is a new reality for you, then that’s just how it is. Stop trying to convince me not to love you.”

Stan opens his mouth to answer. He wants her to know how much he loves her. He wants to tell them all over and over again. Stan is fueled by this desire to let them know for as long as they’ll have him. Every day. Each time he sees them. 

Then the door opens and the rest of the Loser’s Club tumbles in through the door with Bill leading the charge. Bill is at his other side faster than Stan’s eyes can track. Eddie and Richie crowd in on either side of Bev with red-rimmed eyes and steadying hands on Bev’s shoulders. Ben stands next to Bill, arm wrapped around Bill’s trim waist and his other hand coming to rest firmly on Stan’s leg. Mike is the last one in, looking gaunt and like he hasn’t slept a wink. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hands shake as they grip the foot of Stan’s bed with a white-knuckled intensity. 

“Did you tell him?” Richie asks, excited and full of bubbling energy. “Does he know?”

Bill gives Richie a fond look and then meets Stan’s eyes, trembling hand coming up to rest lightly against his cheek like Bev had done, “We can wait to tell you, if you want. I’m sure th-th-th-, dammit!” Bill takes a breath and sighs it out, “I’m sure,” he forces out through gritted teeth, “that this is all a little overwhelming for you.”

“I want to know.” Stan says, eager and painfully earnest. “Tell me, please.”

Ben clears his throat and squeezes Stan’s leg, “I’ve got a house, brand new, in Washington state. I took it right off the market that night when-” his voice catches and it tears Stan apart, “anyway, it’s big enough for us all. Right on the water. It’s got the space for everyone to work in. Open floor-plan, big windows, full garden out back and a boat off the dock. And it’s a ten-minute drive from Presbyterian.” 

“We all quit our jobs.” Richie adds, hand snaking out of his ridiculous leather jacket to hold Stan’s hand. “Well, my career is already over, but the sentiment is still there. We’re moving in together, all of us,  _ you. _ If you want.”

Ben nods and smiles at Richie, “I paid your bill here. No, I don’t wanna hear it. If it makes you feel better, it was nothing. I’ve made a name for myself, I have the money. And I would spend it all for you. I’ve worked with Bev,” Ben smiles at her softly, hopeful and so full of love that it makes Stan’s own heart ache, “and after you’ve been cleared medically, physically, we’re transferring you to Presbyterian so we can all be as close to you as possible through your recovery.”

“And, if you want, when it’s all over,” Eddie adds, nervous and fidgeting, “and you’re released, then you can come home. With us.”

Stan’s chest feels so light and heavy at the same time that he can’t tell if he’s going to cry or if he’s going to laugh. He feels stupid, so stupid, for the stunt he pulled. And there’s a part of him that is worried this is some sort of hellish trick. That maybe It is still real and is dangling this perfect vision in front of him, getting him to chomp at the bit, before taking it all away again. And then he sees Mike, there, at the foot of his bed and his mind blanks out with how much love he feels swell within him. Mike, perfect Mike, who stayed when everyone else had gone. The man who had sacrificed his life - something that could have been filled with love and belonging - for a life of solitude and sacrifice to make sure that It would be taken care when it came back.

“Can I,” Stan starts, raw with emotion, “I love you all,” he manages, making sure to look them all in the eye before landing on Mike again, “but can I talk to Mike for a minute, please?”

He barely registers the way Richie draws in a shaky breath, how Eddie’s hand clenches against Bev’s shoulder, or how Ben seems to hold Bill like a lifeline, for the broken look Mike gives him. Stan is itching to feel Mike closer, he wants so badly to hold Mike’s face in his long-fingered, pale hands. They all lean in to touch Stan, taking turns to press their lips to his forehead, his cheek, his jaw, his hands. But then they all file out, one-by-one, until Mike is the only one left. He’s still there at the foot of Stan’s bed looking lost and almost as if he’s readying himself against a final blow.

“Mike.” Stan breathes, “This isn’t your fault.”

Mike gives out a broken sob and closes his eyes tight, hands gripping the end of the bed like it is the only thing keeping him upright. Stan wants to fight against his restraints, he wants to hold him so bad that he can’t remember the last time he wanted something as much as he does now, but he feels a calm wash over him. Something that Mike always made him feel. Safe. 

Mike takes in a harsh breath and opens his eyes to plead with Stan, “I’m so sorry, Stan.”

“Hey,” Stan says, soft, “come’ere. Please.”

There isn’t anything in this world that could make Mike deny Stan. So, with fresh tears blurring his vision and another heart-breaking sob, he makes his way around Stan’s bed and hovers there, unsure.

“Hold my hand?” Stan whispers, flexing his fingers out and stretching as far as he can. 

Mike’s hand in his feels like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place and Stan is overcome with a desperate yearning to do whatever he needed to in order to make it out whole and complete if it meant having them all to himself.

“This isn’t your fault.” Stan says, stern and sure, gripping Mike’s hand like a lifeline. “This was me. This was my choice.”

“If I hadn’t called, if I had just done it myself, you wouldn’t even be here.” Mike cries, cradling Stan’s hand in both of his, engulfing Stan’s own with warmth and strength. 

Stan just smiles up at him, sad, “If you had tried on your own, you would’ve died. And none of us would have known. We wouldn’t have remembered to miss you. Do you think we would have wanted that?”

“You wouldn’t have known.”

“A part of me would have.” Stan says, quiet. “I may have forgotten your faces, your laugh, I may have forgotten your names, but,” Stan’s voice wavers, “I’ve always known something was missing in me. In my heart. There’s always been a hole in me, Mike. If you hadn’t called, that would have stayed with me for the rest of my life and I wouldn’t ever be able to know that I was missing all this love.”

Mike barely makes it into a chair with the way he drops like a rock, bringing Stan’s hand to his face to cry against his hand. Stan shushes him like his mom used to do for him when he was sick.

“We won.” Mike murmurs, despondent, “We beat It and then, all of the sudden, I felt this pull. It woke me up like a shock to my heart and I  _ knew _ . Stan, I was so scared. I heard you, all your pain, the laughing...you sounded so broken and all I could think was, ‘I can’t lose him. Not now.’”

Stan swallows the lump in his throat, “Well, it didn’t take.” He tries for levity. “You’re stuck with me, now.”

“Stan.” Mike says, voice more sure, and looks up to make eye contact. He looks so fervent, looking at Stan like he’s the Sun, the moon, and all the stars in-between. “Don’t ever think that we feel that way. That  _ I _ feel that way. If anything, you’re stuck with us now. There isn’t anything in this world that would take me from you, from any of you.”

“Promise?” Stan says, trying to be strong and cursing the way his voice trembles. 

Mike nods furiously, “Promise. You just need to recover so you we can show you just how important you are.”

“Ok.” Stan nods, gripping Mike’s hand with strength he didn’t think he had. “Ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not forgetting that Stan is Jewish. That will fold in later. The hospital choice was random as the first thing that came to mind.


	3. Chapter 3

When Stan wakes up it is to a nurse changing his dressings and Ben sitting in Bev’s place, doing something on his phone. The bleariness of sleep is making him a little soft, feeling warm and blissful. The sunlight streaming in through the window is doing nothing but flattering Ben’s bone-structure. His cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks, the pout of his lips, the way he still bites his lip when he’s concentrating; God, it’s enough to make Stan cry.

“Someone’s awake and eyeing you up.” The nurse says, smirking at Stan before giving Ben a wink.

“Stan, shit, sorry!” Ben says, flustered, and Stan’s pleased at the faint blush that creeps across Ben’s nose. “I’ve just been finalizing some things. Most everyone is pretty ok just leaving their things behind but there are some pieces that I’ve had to organize movers for.”

The nurse finishes up and gives Stan another smile, “Your stitches are holding well and looking like they’ll dissolve easily with no problems. Your doctor will be in later to go over your healing process but I think that we should be able to transfer you within the next few days.”

“Thank you, Janet.” Ben says, giving her a grateful smile before turning to Stan. The smile morphs into something brighter, warmer,  _ fond _ , and Stan can’t help but feel lit up from the inside out. 

“Bev?” Stan asks, sleepiness fading. 

Ben gives a self-conscious shrug, “Sorry it's me. Bev really needed a shower and to sleep in a real bed. And she’s the only one really equipped to help Richie-” Ben cuts himself off and looks guilty. Something like vague panic and concern coils in Stan’s stomach.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Stan is quick to say. “I was just curious; it's great to see you.”

Ben’s smile comes back tentative but pleased, “Thanks, Stan. I know Bev is easier on the eyes.”

Stan rolls his eyes, “Please. Now, what’s wrong with Richie? Is he ok?”

There is a part of Stan that holds himself, Richie, and Bev in a smaller, separate group in his mind. They’ve all seen the deadlights. Something that when he had been a boy he had convinced himself hadn’t been real. Bev had never said anything and that had made it all the easier to shove that experience down deep, buried in a box that he never intended to let see the light of day. Forgetting Derry and It had done him one solid: for years it let that box collect dust. But now Richie has seen it, too. If seeing the deadlights was terrifying, well, then seeing his friends caught in that space was worse.

Ben looks uncomfortable, squirms in his seat and avoids Stan’s eyes. Stan knows that Ben feels conflicted. He doesn’t think this is his place to talk about. He seems to fight with himself, and then, “Richie has been...having nightmares. He’s spacing out a lot, he’s quieter now. I mean, he’s still  _ Richie _ , but, sometimes it feels like he’s only himself when he knows we’re looking.”

“And when he thinks you aren’t? Looking, that is.” Stan says, soft.

“He’s like a shell.” Ben whispers, almost to himself, looking into the middle-distance, “He won’t talk about what he saw, what he felt. He makes jokes and flirts with all of us almost aggressively but it's like…” Ben trails off.

Stan worries his lip between his teeth and feels a pang of longing and a protective streak flare up within him, “It's like he’s still there.”

Ben turns back his full attention to Stan and scoots forward in his chair, scraping across the linoleum, and takes Stan’s hand in his, “Please don’t worry too much. The only reason I said anything is because we all decided that we wouldn’t lie to one-another. And Stan, you’re so smart! So smart! And kind. I told everyone that I didn’t want you to be able to tell that something was wrong but not have the information. That you would feel better if you knew.”

It’s such a logical thing to say. Ben is a sensitive soul; a teddy bear with the emotional depth of the damn ocean and so eloquent that even the simplest of sentences somehow sounded like off-beat poetry. Stan had always been jealous of Ben for this, in the way that he wished he had half the amount of soul that Ben had in just his hair alone. But when he talks to Stan, something in Ben changes. His words are just as open and honest but more pointed, more reason-based, more  _ Stan _ . And boy, does Stan want the unfiltered prose. He wants to feel what the others do when Ben waxes poetic about them like it's nothing. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t appreciate Ben’s effort. If he was still thirteen he may have found himself offended and made some quip about how he doesn’t need ‘kid gloves’. 

Now, though, it makes him fall in love with Ben all-over again. Stan can admit, to himself, that he probably fell for all of the other Losers within weeks of meeting them all. Like they were meant to be together forever. Souls transcending time and space. It had been Richie first, something that he’d never admitted out-loud, even just to himself, but loved nevertheless. Then, it had been Bill. Then Eddie, then Bev and Ben and Mike - almost all at once - and that was more overwhelming than he could handle at the time. He spent so much time resisting that pull.

“Thank you, Ben.” Stan manages, feeling a little choked up. “It doesn’t make me feel good to know Richie’s struggling but I like to know.”

Ben glows with another smile - always smiles - and gives the back of Stan’s hand a kiss with soft lips and warm breath ghosting over his knuckles, “I knew it.”

“So,” Stan clears his throat and has to resist the sudden impulse to kiss Ben back, anywhere he’d let him, “tell me about the house and moving stuff.”

This is Ben’s wheelhouse and Stan knows it. Ben has always been able to organize and build. Out of all the other Losers, Stan trusted Ben’s direction the most. The anxiety of any new thing, any change, always felt like smoldering embers when he knew Ben was taking care of a problem versus the billowing flames that overwhelmed him when he faced them alone. As far as brain-power goes Stan always thought that Ben was, realistically, the most responsible. Stan was clean, he was precise, and forced himself to be certain even if, deep down, he didn’t actually feel like anything he did was secure. But Ben? Ben did these things flawlessly and he didn’t even know it; probably wouldn’t believe the compliment if it was paid.

“Bev and I are staying with you here and will follow you when you’re cleared to transfer. Richie may stay with us, too, but I think between Eddie, Mike, and Bill he may be ok to go with them. I’ve set everyone up with expense accounts around town in Washington so they can start filling up the empty space, maybe start painting, buying furniture, making it feel like home. I’ve got utilities set to be turned on once they make it there and I’ve already set up our homeowners insurance.” Ben practically says it all in one breath, excited and obviously nervous.

Stan just squeezes his hand, “That sounds great!” Then, a little more meek, “Have they left yet?”

Ben gives him a Look that is mostly fond and a little long-suffering, “Please, you know that no one would leave before seeing you first. I mean, Bill won't say it outright, but, he’s afraid to leave you at all.”

“What am I going to do, exactly?” Stan tries for humor, “It’s not like there will be a repeat performance.” He smiles, weak, jiggling his other cuffed hand.

Ben goes still at that, his body rigid and coiled tight and Stan knows it wasn’t the right thing to say, or, at least, not the way he said it. He can feel the tensing of the muscles in Ben’s arm tightening up his hand while still managing to hold Stan’s hand like it’s something precious. 

Stan swallows, “Ben, I-”

“No, it's ok.” Ben says, voice rough but wrecked, “I know you’re just being funny, that...that it is a way to cope, but…”

“I know.” Stan swallows and beats the urge to turn in on himself and squeezes Ben’s hand again. “I’m sorry.”

Ben relaxes and kisses his hand again, bringing up a hand that is trembling ever-so-slightly to rest it against Stan’s cheek. This is something he’s noticed is a constant between all the Losers. Since waking up in the hospital he’s been touched with so much reverence and affection in their touch that would, if it were any other people, would make Stan squirm. It would make him prickle with unease and spike his blood pressure just to be even  _ close _ to a stranger. But, somehow, with all the Losers it just feels like home. There’s still a niggling part in the back of his mind that whispers about dirt and grime; about germs and sweat. 

But he can smell Ben’s hand as it rests against his face. It smells like hotel soap and sandalwood with a mask of the disinfectant Stan knows the hospital has. He’s clean, almost painfully so, and Stan knows that it is just another way that Ben’s considerate heart is working to make sure Stan’s comfortable. Sure, Ben’s hand is just a little sweaty and sure, the calluses on his fingers and palm scrape just the barest amount against Stan’s soft, pale cheek but he’s reveling in the feeling. 

“You don’t have to apologize for things like that, Stan. Making jokes is good! Just know that we love you. The world would be worse for the whole of time to see you contained and small. You don’t have to feel like you need to fit into a compartment in our lives. The space we have for you in our hearts is perfectly crafted to fit you and still give you space to move and grow.”

It’s a little wordy and just a little bit difficult for Stan’s brain to try and compartmentalize. The sentiment rings loud and clear, though. It makes Stan’s whole chest flush underneath the vee of the hospital gown, up his neck, then to splash across his nose, and settle atop his ears. There is a part of Stan that is doing its absolute best to tell him that all this love, this new and beautiful life filled with affection and people who love him, cannot last forever. The dark part of him that wants to shy away from every touching interaction is hissing and spitting. It’s like a fail-safe, almost, in his mind. It used to be that if he doubted things even just a little that meant that when disappointment came he could pretend like it was expected.

But with It dead, their memories back, and the feeling of family settling deep into his bones, Stan can’t entertain those thoughts as serious. He knows, just based on what he remembers from childhood, that they’ve always had squabbles and sarcasm is the love language of their group but all that negativity: the fights, the anger, the confusion, the  _ fear _ , were all It. They were poisoned against one-another to keep them separate and weak. But being together, sunning in the love and joy of his friends now, in a world free from It, feels like the beginning of the puzzle of his life finally fitting together to paint a picture worth seeing.

“You’re beautiful.” Stan breathes, nervous and a little shaky, he isn’t used to being this bare. “Ben, you have the most beautiful soul I’ve ever met. I wish I could put into words the way I feel about you, about all of you, the way you do.”

Ben flushes a deep red but can’t keep the look of pure joy off his face. It’s like looking into the face of a puppy that is so happy you’re finally home, “How do you feel about me?”

“You’re fishing,” Stan scolds good-naturedly, “but you deserve to hear it anyway. I love you. I love you so much, Ben, and longer than you probably think. I remember meeting you when we were kids and feeling, even just in the beginning, that I was safe around you. You always made me feel like I could count on you to just be  _ you _ . You make the noise in my brain quieter.”

Stan thinks that maybe he went a little far, told a little too much, because while he knows he comes across as neurotic, he’s made a point to try to talk about anything vaguely mental-health related. But that’s what ended him up here, isn’t it? Cuffed to a hospital bed after nearly breaking the hearts of all the friends he loves and holds dear. He chose to let that darkened corner of his mind take over to solve a problem that he should have trusted to share with the group. His biggest weakness has always been openness. He’s honest. He has integrity. But after growing up with his own mental health issues and strict parents Stan had become a clam that only opened up when forced to or when it felt safe.

Safety had never been a reality, in Stan’s mind, so he held himself closed off to any and all things. Maybe that instinct, that muscle-memory, is something he could work on feeling like he could ease-up on.

Ben cuts into his internal monologue with a soft voice, “I’d say you’re fishing, too, but I know that you probably have no idea just how amazing you are. Even back then when we were all awkward and weird.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Stan wants to assure him, kicking himself in the process because each one of these positive, affirming conversations he’s had with his friends is watering a part of his soul that is far more thirsty than he thought.

Ben just tuts, “I don’t have to do shit, yes. But telling you how much I love you or about how Bev and I used to gush about how gorgeous your eyes are and how much we wanted to touch your hair gives me life. When we were kids, I loved how studious and committed you were, even if something went against what you thought you should do. Sure, you may have fought or complained but you were still  _ there.  _ There’s passion in you, Stan, and something so bright it’s almost blinding.”

“You like my hair?” Stan mumbles, unable to break eye-contact with Ben even if he wanted to. “Do you want to touch it, still?”

“Yes.” Ben breathes, and then, under his breath, “Please.”

Ben’s hand is just as careful as it had been on his cheek, if not more, and instead of just petting back some of his hair, Ben starts carding his fingers through it. Stan’s eyes close on their own and he sighs a little sound of contentment while the tangles in his hair are undone slowly and with purpose. Ben is humming a little under his breath, Stan can’t quite make out the tune and isn’t even sure if it’s from anything, but it’s nice. 

That’s how the doctor finds them. He gives a subtle cough at the door to the room and Stan startles a little but Ben just smooths down his hair and grabs his hand again while he turns to listen to what the doctor has to say. It feels so natural, so normal, like this is just what life  _ is _ and it almost kills Stan that he lost twenty-seven years of something like this. So he soaks up all he can, he tries to commit to memory what Ben’s hand feels like in his. Stan replays in his mind what it had felt like to have that hand against his cheek, in his hair, and only listens to the doctor well enough to not be rude.

There’s a lot of logistics to go over, Stan knows this. Ben has pulled a lot of strings and put forth a lot of money to secure a reality where Stan can be taken across the country to get better somewhere far away from Derry and far closer to a place he’s already calling ‘home’. He hears the doctor confirm that he’ll be released this Friday into the care of a team to take him to Washington. He hears Ben tell him that he and Bev will be with him every step of the way. He hears that he’s looking at a few weeks in the psych ward until they deem that he isn’t a danger to himself or others and that he has a safe place to go to when it’s all done.

Stan can’t imagine feeling safer anywhere else in the world than his new home with his old friends to keep him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's still a lot to go through and some more one-on-one establishing shots but we'll get there. this is definitely a journey fic and a little self-indulgent that there's a universe where Stan and the rest of the Losers manage to actually be happy.


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you think in Jurassic Park’s universe they feed the dinos who die on the island to the carnivores to conserve on space, man-hours, and money?”

Bill sighs and turns on the queen bed that Richie, Eddie, and him are sharing. It was both very late and early. It is as dark as it gets outside and the room that’s become a sort of halfway-house since Stan’s been in the hospital. It feels familiar and comfortable and even a little stuffy. Bill tells himself that he’ll clean up and air out the place in the morning. Eddie would usually be on top of it - almost overwhelmingly so - but after It, after Stan, he’s switched gears and thrown himself into making sure that everything they’ve been planning is up to code, paid in full, and perfect for them all. Especially Stan. 

“Can’t sleep?” Bill mumbles half to Richie and half into his pillow. This isn’t the first time that Richie has woken him up in the middle of the night with questions so  _ out there _ that Bill has trouble wrapping his head around what exactly goes through Richie’s.

It is comforting in a way, now. After coming back and remembering, Bill suddenly was awash with memory and emotion that managed to feel both far away and like it had happened just the night before. He remembered waking up in his room or Richie’s or Ben’s and turning to find Richie awake, wide awake, but silent. It was almost like a dream, the first time, because Richie  _ talked _ . But in that moment, so many years ago, he had felt like Richie became glaringly three-dimensional that night. 

Unfortunately, then it had been a case of insomnia that kept Richie awake. Bill knew it sucked, could remember seeing Richie show up to school or to their hangouts with dark circles under his eyes and the slightest slip in his timing for jokes, and realized then what he wished he had been mature enough and observant enough to notice before. He never knew why Richie couldn’t sleep. Sure, they all knew Richie had trouble with focusing or, on the other end of the spectrum, hyper-focusing. But it never really connected that Richie’s trouble sleeping could be tied to the way that his mind just never shuts the fuck up. But now? Now, Bill knows that nightmares and what is very likely to be some form of PTSD  _ along _ with his very active mind just made sleeping that much harder. 

Richie doesn’t turn into Bill like he usually does - like he used to do when they were kids - to whisper in the dark back and forth until Richie was able to fall asleep or it was time for breakfast. He’s still laying on his back with his eyes unfocused and sans-glasses and his hands resting behind his head. Richie would look relaxed and soft to a stranger but Bill could feel the faint trembling of every single muscle in Richie’s body practically vibrating with nervous energy. Shaking and shivering, with the strain of keeping still and out of fear. Bill knows he’s trying to play it cool. Everyone knows that Richie’s been having trouble sleeping and while it’s been talked about there hasn’t been a change and Richie has been doing his best to play everything off with a shrug. He was too focused on Stan and Bill knew that Richie probably didn’t want to burden the group with his problems. 

Richie may talk a lot but he seldom says anything like he’s afraid if he isn’t funny that he doesn’t matter.

“No.” Richie says, quiet to let Eddie keep on sleeping while he snores softly in the background, “It’s a small island, Billy-Boy. I mean, logistically I don’t see how it can even function. I mean, imagine how much food they have to bring in. How many goats do they ship in every week to chain to a post? It’s not a great idea to bury any dead ‘saurs and imagine labor costs to dispose off-island.”

Bill smiles at Richie’s profile and moves a hand to rest, heavy and warm, on Richie’s chest. It thankfully has a positive effect. He can feel Richie’s heart thudding against his sternum to reverberate into Bill’s hand, fast enough to be concerning. But Richie’s breathing is evening out while he takes very purposeful deep breaths through his nose and out his mouth. He’s overwarm and a little sticky with cooling sweat but that doesn’t bother Bill. His thumb moves of its own accord, mindless, to rub soothing circle’s into Richie’s chest. He can feel the strength in Richie’s chest, in the heavy, solid presence of him in bed next to him. 

Bill could force Richie to say something real. Not that Bill doesn’t delight in the many places Richie's place likes to go. But he won’t. Because they’re all still fragile and broken pieces need time to heal and mend and Bill knows that Richie would spill it all if he just poked and prodded the right buttons but he wants Richie to come to him, or any of them, on his own terms. 

So, Bill decides that he’s ok with just helping Richie through the night and hope that when the sun comes up the hard line of tension in Rich will soften, “Isn’t the p-park new-ish in the story? Maybe they just haven’t had to come to that roadblock yet.”

“Counterpoint: the book goes into more detail but it’s confirmed that they bred the dinos to have an accelerated growth-rate  _ and _ ,” Richie says, finally turning onto his side to face Bill, absentmindedly covering Bill’s hand with his own and keeping it pressed to his chest like it is some kind of lifeline. Bill can feel Richie’s heart-rate start to settle and feels pleased when a smile quirks Richie’s lips, “As per the third movie there is more than one island! There’s always bugs in beta testing, Billiam. What if the raptors were bred originally as a clean-up crew.”

Bill leans in closer, noses practically touching, and marvels at how beautiful Richie is. Richie is a combination of hard lines and soft edges. Strong and broad with achingly beautiful bone structure but still, somehow, soft and  _ present _ . A constant.

“They do have an awf-f-f-fully small enclosure for three raptors. More like a cage and less like an attraction.” 

Richie’s eyes crinkle with his smile, brighter and bigger now, and he tightens the grip he has on Bill’s hand, “You get it, man.”

They’re quiet for a little while enjoying one another’s warmth and company. Richie can’t see for shit without his glasses but it’s too dark anyway to matter. Richie’s heart has slowed down to acceptable resting beat and his skin is starting to cool while he relaxes his muscles seemingly one-by-one deliberately. Bill can feel the muscles in Richie’s chest flex and move underneath his hand and he’s moving his hand up the taller man’s chest, to his throat, and then to curl around the back of his neck. Richie makes a pleased sound behind a closed-lip smile and only squeaks a little when Bill pulls him in closer and gracefully man-handles him to put Richie’s head on Bill’s chest.

It’s almost over-warm; just on the right side of comfortable. The feeling of Richie’s heavy weight on his chest, at his side, and tangled in his legs feels natural - like they’ve been doing this for the last few decades instead of being alone. 

Richie speaks up again, whispering almost to himself, “I don’t want to sleep.”

Eddie stirs in his sleep, waking just enough to roll over and groggily squint at them in the darkness, and doesn’t say anything. He just shifts closer to Bill and snuggles in, resting his own head against Bill’s free shoulder and wraps his arm around Bill’s stomach, his hand resting firm and sweet on Richie’s hip. Bill feels Eddie’s leg move to hike itself up onto his hip, sliding his leg between Bill’s and Richie’s. Eddie is asleep before Bill can even gather himself together after the low-thrum pulse of heat settles in his gut. They’re in tangles and Bill is both overwhelmed and wants more.  But, first, he needs to take care of Rich, “You don’t have to sleep if you don’t w-w-want to,” Bill comments once he’s sure Eddie has settled fully. “I’m here, I’m awake.”

“I feel like such a fucking baby.” Richie admits after a pause, almost like talking in the dark is easier than in the light of day. “We killed the fucking clown. We survived a Giant Cosmic Asshole and I can’t handle a few bad dreams.”

Bill runs his fingers over Richie’s shoulder with a feather-like touch - mostly because the angle is weird and his wrist starts to cramp if he adds more pressure - and hums, “Do you think I’m a baby?”

“No?” Richie says, confused.

“So why can’t you give yourself a break?”

Richie snorts out a self-deprecating laugh, “Because I’m not doing anything with it, Bill. Being scared is separate from your personality. You used, even if you forgot the specifics, that fear to fuel your books - shut up, yes, I read them - and not just you. But, I feel like all I am is fear. That, maybe, my jokes are the secondary personality.”

“Rich, you were joking the m-m-moment you could talk in complete sentences.”

“To you, maybe. And then later with the other Losers. But you hadn’t given up on me like everyone else, none of you did - even when I would have deserved it.” Richie laughs and rubs his face into Bill’s shirt with a sigh. “I never knew when I was going too far or being too weird or anything. I was always afraid of losing you guys because I can’t keep my fucking mouth shut. Like now. I’d like to stop talking right now.”

Bill’s heart clenches in his chest and he does his best to move Richie’s head back up to his own without jostling Eddie too much. It’s awkward and Richie is taking in a couple of breaths that sound like they should be followed up by words but Richie just swallows them back down. Bill strains forward just the little bit further to bring their foreheads together. 

“Rich.” Bill whispers, voice hushed, “We’d never shut you out.”

Richie squirms in the intimate moment, “You did. Once, when we were kids. When I wouldn’t shut up about Georgie.”

“I was angry.” Bill admits. “I was hurting and in pain and too young and naive to see past my own nose at times. We all lashed out at one another and used harsh words. I regretted hitting you the moment I let my fist fly. I was so surprised at myself, shocked and hurt and my brain was trying to work a million miles a minute to justify doing it but nothing stuck. I hated myself.”

“I deserved it.”

Bill’s grip on Richie tightens, “No, you didn’t. It needed to be said and I can’t blame you for the delivery either because you’d been so patient with me. Correcting yourself when you’d talk about Georgie, agreeing with me that he was just missing, being there for me. I almost let It kill all of us because I refused to accept reality.”

“Bill, I-”

Bill shuts him up with a soft kiss on his nose and sighs, “Listen, Rich, and listen good. It’s ok to be afraid and it is ok to ask for help. People will always have ups and downs and sometimes the bad outweighs the good, sure. I can’t lie and say we won’t ever argue again or that our whole Loser’s dynamic will remain one-hundred percent sweet and calm but it will still  _ be _ . We love you because it’s a choice. That’s what love is: going through life and being there together regardless of shortcomings and hardship. I realized that day, the day I hit you, that I loved y-y-you and I’m sorry for going that far.”

“Promise me?” Richie asks, voice hoarse and thick with emotion, “Promise me that you’ll tell me when it’s too much and when I need to stop?”

Bill laughs a little, “That’s what Beep-Beep is for.”

It’s silent again and Bill can feel his eyes starting to get heavy again and he tries to fight the urge to slip away again but Richie just fully settles, cuddles up, and talks into Bill’s shirt, “Get some sleep, Bill, I’m ok. Maybe tonight will be different and I won’t dream at all.”

“Promise you’ll wake me up if you can’t sleep or have a bad dream and maybe I will.”

He can feel Richie smile against his chest, “Promise.”

It is a couple minutes later, when Bill’s hand has stilled against Richie’s shoulder and Bill’s breaths become soft and slow that Richie whispers to him just on the edge of sleep, “I love you, too.”

***

“Do you think it’s too much to put in some kind of aviary/greenhouse in the backyard?”

Mike and Ben have been awake since the sun’s light first came over the horizon. They’d woken up in bed together in a web of tangled sheets and blankets with the smell of Bev’s perfume sandwiched between them, clinging to her pillow. Ben remembered Bev getting up while it was still dark, unwilling to stay away from Stan for too long. She’d given both groggy men a light kiss to their temples before slinking out of bed and getting ready as quiet as she could. It was strange for Ben to be in bed alone with Mike. Not in a bad way, just alien. He definitely liked it, though.

Mike glances up at Ben over their shitty coffee and a pile of journals and plans. Mike had decided to leave most of his things behind. He only kept some knick-knacks, sentimental, and a few journals. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to keep any of the work he’d done and collected on It and Derry. Something didn’t sit right with him to bring it to a whole new place, fresh and untainted. Ben understood and supported him wholeheartedly but it did strike some cord in him that out of all of them Mike had the least. While Ben hadn’t been truly happy while he was on his own for all these years he did have to admit that he’d still felt relatively fulfilled. Mike deserved that, too.

“That sounds perfect! Do we need a license to have that many birds?” Mike wonders, pulling out a fresh piece of paper to start sketching on it, “I’m no Picasso and you know more about making things pretty and functional but I have some ideas for a little nook for Stan and some seating.”

It’s such a Mike thing to do and Ben loves him for it. Ben loved how smart and certain Mike was, how he had so much integrity and earnestness about him that Mike could tell him the Earth had gained a new moon and Ben would just accept that as gospel and a ‘wow’. They’re trying to keep quiet, knowing that the rest of the boys are on the other side of the wall and it was still early enough that they’d wanted to let them sleep as long as they could. They’d be leaving tonight when visiting hours were over and everyone got to see Stan before heading out ahead. 

Ben spent most of the nights since their plan has come together just idly imagining what life will be like now that he has people he loves and the ability to keep them all together. And while he definitely wishes that It had never been a problem he was, in a way, happy that the circumstances that lead to Its defeat meant he found his family again. He felt stronger now, complete, like he belonged to a set. He loves Mike so fiercely for being who he is. Considerate and smart and so gorgeous. Mike reminds him of a farmhouse: sturdy and functional with light and open space, the smell of hay and fresh-cut grass, the soft feeling of well-worn wood, the feeling of peace and sanctuary. 

“You’re staring. Is something on my face?” Mike asks, curious while he looks up to Stan over his sketch.

Ben feels the flush of heat and color in his face but they aren’t kids anymore and there isn’t anything keeping him back now, “You’re pretty.”

Definitely not as eloquent as the internal monologue but to the point, at least. It is well worth it, though, when Mike’s face splits into a wide, joyous smile while he moves a hand up to his face to scratch at the shadow of hair he hadn’t bothered to shave yet. 

Mike ducks his head again and adds some new lines to the page, “I’m a little scruffy.”

“I like it.” Ben says on impulse, happy with himself and annoyed that when it came to Mike, Ben wasn’t as suave and well-spoken as he’d like. So he tries again, “You’d look great with a beard.”

He feels so much more than that, too. Mike would look great in a trash bag and the guy doesn’t seem to know just how perfect his is. So, Mike just smiles - shyly and almost to himself - and has to clear his throat like that will disturb the ridiculous amount of happiness that threatens to spill out of his mouth and all over the table. Mike is too distracted now to really flesh-out the sketch but he hands it over to Ben anyway, surprised with himself with how much he wants Ben’s approval. 

“It’s not perfect and I haven’t seen the property in person but I think it would look really nice off to the side of the house that the sun hits first.”

It’s perfect to Ben because Mike did it; because he, and the rest of the Losers, have been more than helpful with ideas and the like. He didn’t feel like he was doing all the work, it felt like he was a vital piece of a machine that needed all its parts to keep moving. The sketch was beautiful, but Ben already knew that Mike was good with his hands: hard work, cooking, and the like. His hands were strong and sure but handled detailed work like a painter. The aviary looks beautiful and pretty close to what Ben had been imagining anyway. A large, glass-dome ceiling with plenty of rafters and hanging perches for birds to sit on and watch the sun come up. It was large but accounted for all its space with raised flower beds and a breakfast nook in one corner and a rough-outline of a fountain made to look like a natural spring. 

“Stan would love this.” Ben murmurs almost to himself.

Mike’s smile is back full-force and Ben would be fine if he never saw the sun again for how absolutely luminous it was. 

“I think it would be best if we hammered out something more concrete and official-looking before we ask Stan what he thinks.”

Ben meets his eyes again and this time their eye contact doesn’t break, “You don’t think it should be a surprise?”

“Well,” Mike sighs, chewing on his lip for a moment, “I just figured that Stan would like to have some input to make the space really  _ his _ you know? He’d love whatever we did but maybe this should have his touches on it so he feels like it’s his spot. I’ll wake up every morning to bring him coffee in this thing and I’d enjoy the chance to take care of flowers but it would really be Stan’s place.”

Ben is so touched and feels himself somehow fall more in love with Mike, “That’s a great idea, Mike.” Ben pauses to look Mike over and appreciates the slope of his nose and the way the corner of his mouth dimples when he smiles. “What about you, Mike? What’s your space?”

“I don’t know. I don’t need one.” Mike shrugs and Ben knows he isn’t being misleading, he’s being perfectly humble and happy with what they have so far. 

So, Ben brings out the big-guns, desperate to see that open joy on Mike’s face again, “What about a library? There’s a perfect room for it with high-ceilings, a fireplace, and we could install some shelves and maybe get you a desk to work at and study.”

“You’d do that for me?” Mike asks in wonder. “You don’t have to, Ben, I like our house as-is, it is already more than I’d ever thought I’d have.”

Ben reaches across the table and grabs onto Mike’s hand with a tight squeeze as if to convey how serious he is, “Mike, I will be spending the rest of my life working - happily - to give the people I love whatever they want and anything they’d like. I want to make every subsequent day the next best day of your life. You deserve it.”

“That means so much to me, Ben, that I’m not sure I can properly put it into words but I want you to know that I could live the rest of my life in a room like this with you, all of you, and be just as fulfilled. The extras, the bells and whistles, it’s all confetti. There isn’t a day that will go by in which I’m not happy just because I have you all.”

Ben laughs with tears clouding his vision and joy in his heart, “Then the extra is the cherry on top.”

“Ben,” Mike whispers, turning Ben’s hand over in his to trace the lines of Ben’s palm. It shouldn’t be exciting or send a thrill through Ben’s arm straight to his heart like a heart attack but it does. Mike just continues his light ministrations, oblivious to Ben trying very hard not to burst into flames, “do you wanna lay down with me while we wait for the boys to wake up for breakfast?”

It’s such a pure and open request. Nothing coded, nothing sexual - not that Ben would mind, but all of the Losers had reached a weird, unspoken consensus on waiting until Stan was properly home - and Ben’s whole chest flushes with coiled heat and raw affection. They had time to just lay together and do nothing else. Ben felt like it was deserved, that Mike deserved this. While Ben had flings before and a few relationships that failed despite his own efforts he still felt so starved for love in any form. And if that form was laying in bed with Mike, nose-to-nose, sheltered by soft sheets and warm skin, well, that’s pretty much heaven for him.

“Only if I get to hold your hand.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK if anyone reads these but I originally wanted to just stick with the Stan POV but, while he's definitely a focus, this is still an OT7 and I want to build relationships up between everyone. 
> 
> In case any of you are worried or wondering: this story doesn't really have anything negative in mind. I love reading all the fics for this fandom but I needed something self-indulgent. I wanted to write a story that was just about finding love again and living with it. I wanted all of them to be happy. There will be low-key problems. Arguments. Things like that but as a part of relationships. I wanted to show that people can be 'broken' and hurt and suffer and still have support and love bc that's what they deserve. 
> 
> Honestly, you deserve love, too. I've struggled with my own mental and physical health issues and what comes with it and I just wanted to write something that provided that. I want to truly capture what unconditional love should be.
> 
> Leave your feedback if you feel like it!

**Author's Note:**

> ~Because I hate myself and life is a fucking nightmare~


End file.
